


L'État, C'est Moi

by Xanoka



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Can A Nation Die, French Revolution, Gen, Guillotine, Nationhood, The Reign of Terror, The Terror, identity crisis, marie antoinette - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 11:39:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6517114
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xanoka/pseuds/Xanoka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1793 and the The Terror of the French Revolution has begun.  Francis Bonnefoy is about to meet his fate.</p>
            </blockquote>





	L'État, C'est Moi

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Hetalia fanfic focusing solely on France. It's also my first story about the French Revolution. I am not an expert, but I hope I didn't make any mistakes!
> 
> It was inspired my some excellent fanart by thedisappointedidealist21 on tumblr (http://thedisappointedidealist12.tumblr.com/post/142528908777/francis-bonnefoy-has-the-potential-to-be-a-very).  
> Check it out.
> 
> L’État, c’est moi: The State, it is I

 

_L’état, c’est moi._

That’s what he said, and for a while I believed him.

I tried to warn him, and his sons too, but there were parties and wine and clothes and scandal and sex.  Not to mention the constant needling of _le rosbif_ to occupy me.  And, somehow, I left Versailles less and less.  And the music and the gossip drowned out the other voices.

The world is very loud now as I am torn in two.

The head of the state is to be literally parted from its body.  The King is already dead. 

I suppose I must be unemployed?  It is confusing.  Or perhaps I am sick.

The world is too loud, too bright, and my blood beats a tattoo in my ears.  But it is also on the streets.  It is also on the wood, staining this platform where the Queen recently stood.

It is very bright.

And now they’re turning to me and the shouting is louder, so loud I can hear it over the blood.

But more than the shouting, I can feel the twisting, wrenching, angry pain.  It accompanies the cloying fear, mine and My Lady’s, competes with the rage and hatred hammering at me from all side.  Anger makes their faces ugly.  I do not recognise them.

Perhaps it will not be so bad to die. 

I have died many times.  It is silent and it is dark, which frightens me.  But then I can begin again. 

A hand is on my shoulder and I’m being pushed to my knees.

Advisor to the King, they’re calling me.  They should know _me_ , yet they don’t.  Or if they do, they do not care. 

Have I truly been away so long they’ve forgotten me?  Or grown to despise me?  They’re calling us Traitors to the State. 

Consider.

I could have stopped this.  Had I been wiser, less frivolous, less _distracted_.

Someone is removing my cravat.  They will probably sell it, or gamble it away, like the guards at Our Lord’s crucifixion.  I am not sorry.  There is no sense in wasting good linen.

Light plays along metal, like dawn on the horizon.

I will do better next time.


End file.
